Noir - The First Time
by purplecleric
Summary: Innocence lost... A prequel to Noir. ***Warning - this is dark*** Ever wondered how it began?
1. Awakening

_All my boyhood, all I ever wanted was to be loved. – Norman Wisdom_

He went away.

Not his body, just his mind. Away from the here and the now.

At first it had been out of boredom.

He was a clever kid. While others in his class had been struggling, he had already made the connections, seen the patterns in the numbers. And his mom had introduced him to joy of reading early, so the written word was no stranger. His mom and her beloved books had also opened a door to the wider world; to science and history and geography. So school was not a challenge and he was often bored. Leaving him with hours to fill with daydreams and "what ifs?" until the sound of his name or the bell ringing brought him back...

Then it became a place to go that was reliable, secure.

When he could no longer depend on cookies and milk on his return home, when dinner could be a lovingly prepared feast or a forage in sparse cupboards. When his mom was smiles and stories one day and nagging and nightmares the next. When his dad went away... again. When Frank found new friends and excuses to be out, and had no time for childish games with his little brother. The world in his head was always there, and the only changes were the ones _he_ made.

Sometimes it was a sanctuary.

A place to be a child when the scary world of grown-ups seemed too near, too soon. When First Communion meant first confession and the concept of sin. When the dry wafer on his tongue felt like the crackers he ate watching the game on the big television; feeling hot and sickly excited at the strange noises from the next room. When the Blood of Christ and sweet incense smelt like his father, afterwards. When the secrecy and the lies was a mixed blessing of his father's attention and trust coupled with guilt and shame. When his mother looked like the Madonna and started speaking in tongues like the Devil.

At the worst times, it was survival.

He could look at the scrawny pale kid, all elbows and knees, and not feel the dull ache of bruises, the stinging slaps. He could watch and not feel abandoned as the father left again, could watch and not feel the fear at the mother's approach. He did not have to check if she was smiling or scowling, what she was holding in her hands. He did not have to listen to her harsh spiteful words. He could watch and did not have to feel the hurt. Did not have to feel anything.

Other times it was simply time and space.

A clear space and uncluttered time to think, try to figure things out. To try to match what he saw around him to what he knew. Why the rules in the world were so important but so conflicting. Why the Church and the Priest said one thing, why the teachers said another, and at home the rules changed on a daily basis. Why words and rules did not match deeds and behaviours. To try to work out "why him?" Why he was different; why his words and behaviour seemed to provoke such reactions. Times like now...

"Robert Goren! Are you listening to me?"

He brings himself back to the here and now; looks at his 5th grade teacher. Her words are sharp, her face red, and he realises that the truth is not the right answer to give. After all, it was speaking the truth that had caused this latest trouble. Bella _did_ look like a frog; shiny skin, wide mouth, bulging eyes. Why had that made her cry?

"Apologise to Bella, now!"

But he was not sorry, he had not lied. He needs some instruction, some guidance; that's what teachers are for. So he asks:

"Why?"

And by the look on her face he knows that he will be staying late after school again.

Well, at least it is better than going home...

Sitting in the empty classroom, listening to the ticking clock marking time; boredom drives him away again.

He does not yet realise every time he goes away he leaves a little piece of himself there. Every time he comes back a little emptier. Does not realise that soon, all that will be left will be a shell, and an aching void...


	2. First Blush

_A __library__ is a place where you can lose your innocence without losing your virginity - Germaine Greer_

Freshman year and he feels anything but fresh.

Feels more worn out, worn down. He is the alien stranger in a strange land, thrust into high school with scant understanding of the subtle social cues, the hidden meanings, the cultural references. He can barely navigate his way through the necessities; the responsibilities of home, church, studies, without triggering alarm.

But the library is safe, the physical equivalent of the world in his head, a world he can no longer reach. The local public library, the school library; any library would do until the school outing to the New York Public Library. Until he had climbed the steps; the stone guardians, Patience and Fortitude, providing a more pertinent maxim to live by than any Commandment. Until he had stood in awe on the threshold of the hallowed hall. Here he could access a millennia of accumulated knowledge, could find the answers to the conundrum of his existence; answers that the Church, education and family were failing to provide...Here was the ultimate sanctuary.

So he comes here often, his mind walking the paths of ancient philosophers and cutting edge theorists; a treacherous route of evil and depravity and an inkling of understanding. Here he is free from the minefield of social interaction, the only environment where he truly blends in, where he can relax. Here he is free from ...

Tension.

Being alone with his mother. His dad long gone, taking with him the stench of the track, the women, the booze. Frank, an infrequent visitor, but trying to fill his father's absence with his own reeking vices. There is some structure now, he has seen to that. Does the shopping, the cleaning, and all the daily domestic rituals. Does more; gives his mother her meds, talks her down when delusions rip through her, lies awake listening to the restlessness that drives her to constant motion, stands guard when the violence threatens.

Tension.

The constant burden of trying to conform, to meet society's norms. Of realising that his thoughts and actions are off kilter, are seen as upsetting and disturbing. The perpetual observations of the interaction and behaviour of others, the collation of all this data into mental guidelines, the "how to" of human behaviour. Unceasing vigilance, lest his words betray his secrets.

Tension.

In his developing body; his height and his awkwardness drawing unwelcome attention. Hormones raging, the seemingly constant state of arousal, the inconvenient erections. The frantic, furtive sessions of masturbation; mind filled with soft breasts swelling under pink mohair, the scent of talcum powder, the flash of panties in gym class. Stimulating but not satisfying; until he remembers a squeal of pain, blood bubbling in a wound, its rich coppery scent...

Tension.

In keeping secrets. Keeping secrets from the Church; about how far from their teachings he was straying, with no regret or remorse, the prospect of Hell seeming more like an ambition than a threat. Keeping secrets from his teachers, especially Mr Dixon; whose biology lessons introduced dissection and fed into his fascination with dead flesh and clotting blood, lifeless organs. Keeping secrets from his mother; the lock on his bedroom door preventing her finding his books, his writings and his private experiments in the once living, now dead.

Tension.

In the yawning chasm in the pit of his belly, in the ever- present hunger and the need. In the knowledge that he is fuelling this drive. In the frustration of being unable to feel sated, calm, still; even in the library, even after orgasm, even with his other occupations...

Tension.

In the young man's voice, full of bravado and spite, as he spews a torrent of abuse and hits home with a derogatory remark about mad mothers.

Tension.

In his muscles, in his fists, as he lets loose, rage and violence exploding, pounding the youth to the ground and continuing his attack , even though he is obviously the victor.

Tension.

In his groin, erection straining, engorged by the sight of pain and weakness, the smell of sweat and fear, the immense feeling of power...

Tension.

In the spectators, not knowing if he will stop, can stop.

Eventually he is pulled off; body pumped with adrenaline, eyes glittering, breath coming in harsh gasps, sweat darkening his shirt, semen sticky in his shorts. He shakes off the intervention and stalks away, ignorant of the cat calls and threats of punishment. He is only aware of one thing:

Release.


	3. Cherry

_Your daddy is a wine, and your mommy's quite insane. From altar boy to sewer rat, you don't give a damn. - Megadeth_

He had accumulated knowledge.

Had taken his studies seriously, reading the texts and doing some additional research so he was succeeding at school. But he'd taken his other studies equally seriously. Had observed and analysed reactions, interactions; High School becoming a social microcosm with him as an ardent anthropologist. Had investigated further, reading everything from the Classics to Cosmopolitan, trashy novels to teen fiction in an attempt to gain some insight into hidden thoughts and dreams.

And slowly, cautiously he began to apply that knowledge.

At first, to himself; carefully adjusting his behaviour and speech until he was more in line with his peers. Until he could _pass_. Then, noting how differently they responded to him, he began to experiment; playing the fool or the hero, the jock or the nerd and was fascinated by the results. And gradually, with practise, he learned that he could provoke and control their responses, their reactions; that he had power over them.

Then the fun had really begun.

He gave up the Church, seeing no further value there. He performed the rituals of care at home with perfunctory diligence. He gave up his secret scribblings and his even more secret experiments, seeing a far greater potential. Instead he concentrated all his energy on this new thrill, this new way to fill the aching emptiness of his existence, to lessen the yawning chasm within, to _feel_.

In lessons, he would let a teacher lecture, expounding their theories, prompted and steered by his hesitant, stumbling displays of apparent ignorance. Until his sharp mind and even sharper words would lay bare their fallacies, the flaws in their logic. Watching their confidence crumble, their belief in themselves falter, he felt the delicious sensation of uncoiling in his belly, the beast stirring.

At break times, he would use sly insinuations, subtle hints, softly spoken to provoke, enrage. Until his target would flare up, full of anger and he would cut them down with cold, cruel words. Or they would explode, fists flying, and he would let loose his own violence in response. The perceived "victim" acting in self defence, he would revel in their hurt outrage and sense of injustice as they were the ones punished.

And then there were the girls.

He would stalk them through the library stacks, embarking on a campaign of coy glances, shy smiles, aided by long lashes, a mop of dark curls and a body now filled to man-sized proportions. Once he had captured their interest, he would orchestrate their seduction, their submission and the sex was more exciting the longer and harder he had to work to get it. Afterwards, he lost interest, the thrill of pursuit and capture over. He is not sure if he enjoys their bodies or their tears more.

But it is not enough.

It is a mere teaser, seeing apprehension or alarm in their eyes as he pins their bodies under his, as flesh meets flesh, in lust or violence. The heady sensation of dominance, power as they yield, cede, submit; the scent of weakness and fear strong in his nostrils. The fascination with the patterns of breathing, the rhythms of heartbeat and pulse and the exhilarating knowledge of how little it would take to make it stop. The longing, the need, the urge to make it stop: to be responsible for that last breath, the final beat...

Tonight is the Senior Prom and he has a very special date.

He has been planning this for months; doing his research, scouting locations, gathering the necessary tools and equipment. He has been dreaming, fantasising about every possible method; the thoughts taking on a life of their own, occupying his waking moments and filling his night time visions. He has considered all possible consequences and has concluded he just doesn't care; the need has become too great, the beast raging with hunger, appetite whetted by his manipulations, his cruelty, his violence and crying out for more...

So now he is waiting, watching in the shadows, all plans forgotten, acting out of primal instinct; the hunt beginning. Watching the homeless go about their wretched lives in the makeshift camp, assessing each one; too drunk, too stoned, too mad. He wants his prey to be alert, aware, to _know_. Selection complete, he waits; breath shallow, heart racing, mouth dry in exquisite anticipation. At last, his target separates from the pack and the predator strikes...

Oh God! If he had known sooner... the exaltation, the exhilaration. This was sex and violence and power and so much more. This was triumph, ascendancy; he wants to throw back his head and howl out his rapture. Finally sated, loose limbed and light headed, he disappears again into the night...

The Rite of Passage, the Coming of Age: the boy becomes ...a monster.


End file.
